Hurry up and get old

Someday, they will be 93 and 90; and toasting with pink lemonade. 
Every mother, grandmother and wise old sage-type person will tell you the same:

"It goes so fast, enjoy every moment."


"Slow down and smell the flowers."


"Before you know it, they will be all grown up and you will have an empty house."


"It is not a race."

And I say:

"Bring it on. Bring it all on. Bring it fast. Bring it amazing. If the flowers smell that great, I'll be able to smell them on the way without slowing down. And if your children battled life threatening illnesses, you would realize, it is a race."

Yes, I want my girls to hurry up and get old. Because their early childhoods have been marred with potholes; more like sink holes, really. Stops and scares that threatened to end their childhood immediately.  NICU stays and PICU stays. Oncologists and MRIs. Dark clouds and evil diseases threatening to stop them both from growing up.

The Adkins of Lindenwold rarely sit still. Our schedules are jam-packed and there is always room for more. In our house, we enjoy and sometimes, when everyone is tired, yell our way through every moment. Even our relaxation is fast and full. The school year flies by. The girls can do any activity they wish--because there might not be a chance tomorrow.

We may procrastinate laundry and kitchen cleaning; but we never procrastinate childhood.

Childhood is here and now. Right now. It is fast. It flies. You cannot stop its forward motion, so we accelerate with it, we cram it in and we pray for the day our girls are old and grown and enjoying the race of the childhoods of their children.

Because when my girls are grown up: it means we won; we beat cancer, we beat prematurity, we beat preeclampsia.

And we will win. I am sure of it.